Call Me Ruin
by TheBattyWhiteCrow
Summary: The journals of a mad man have revealed a power no one man should possess. When Ratchett destroys the moon, chaos ensures, and its up to a strange pair to return order to a world so hostile. The stories of the past collide with the present, bringing an array of immortal god like creatures in the realms against any and every Crafter in an attempt to save their world.


_"How does one starts a story that spans over a hundred years, where does one start?_  
_Where they know every last detail, or simply, the details they did hold at the time?"_  
\- Ruin, The Journal On Crafters

Hyjiin – The Iron Protector Of Root Village

There wasn't much about the world around the iron golem, that it knew much about. Not that this bothered, the golem, of course. Rather, it held no interest to learn further detail in the world around it that was direly required for the purpose of its creation. The stars, for instance, would stay where they were in the nighttime, posing no danger to the villagers of the Root Village. The soil, would not turn venomous and angry under the dark, for another instance.

Alternatively, there were many things that Hyjiin had at his disposal in knowledge that proved no help to his purpose. The iron golem knew, for instance, how to craft other iron golems of its make, large, bulky and purposeful things with only an interest in protecting those of the village nearby, and absolutly nothing else. Such knowledge was required, particularly for repairing itself, but, as the villagers did not mine deep enough for iron to be located, such knowledge was useless at its surroundings.

The village bristled with people, not a single one speaking a word as they passed the iron golem down the paved street. Structures of simple design littered the area, filled in with rows and rows of crops ready to be harvested. Lamps of wooden make lit the thin streets and stretches of land that the villagers crossed daily in their habitual lives.

Down the path a ways, towards the sea, was a market place, where the villagers traded their wares with shaking head gestures to dispute over the exchange of green emerald gems for the wares. Hyjiin knew the name of such gems not from observation of the villagers, for they never spoke, any of them, but rather its creator from long ago, who, longing for companionship, had taken to speaking with the iron golem on many matters, rare gems included.

Upon the sea were docks of stable design, boats skimming the top of the water when the sun was high in the sky, fishing poles reeling in a great deal of fish for meals. A forest stood to one side of the village, the light between the trees being rather dim and it was not often that the villagers entered it, even for wood for construction, they seemed to be at ill ease around it, in fact, when one was for circumstance, forced to enter it.

How strange, Hyjiin supposed a moment, it seemed a ready source of building materials. Such a waste, it thought to itself, its tired gaze turning up to the sky in a slow, and gradual movement, unflinching at the searing ball of heat hanging low in the sky.

Two point seven hours before nighttime.

Flint – The Wandering Villager

No one entered the forest to the side of the village, and of course, the smaller then most boys his age, boy, had to find out why. To say he was curious, was an understantement, after all, it made absolutly no sense! Their village not only had one golem of an iron make, known as Hyjiin, but another, of a diamond make, Bakum, and as such, if the forest held any danger to the village it should have been torn down years ago.

But no, there it stood, just a few paces from the furthest reaching house of the village.

The boy was always one interested in such subjects that many others of his kind and company usually didn't seem to take much notice upon. Like the others in his village, Flint wore brown robes that enrapped him completely, his hands constantly folding in front of his body, clasped together tightly in a show of respect to The Lady of The Nether, the one who despised all Crafters, as they were called.

Crafters were the people who held the power and the desire to rip apart the world around them, to build objects of their interest. Keeping one's hands together, and thus, not able to craft once again, was a form of apology from the entire village, honoring the strange creature that was the woman. Claiming wordlessly through this action, that they, while having had to build a village for themselves to survive, had done so sparingly, and would build no longer after it was done.

His brow was painted directly across in a perfect horizontal angle with a dark brown slash of paint that shimmered in the sunlight, distincting themselves further from the Crafters the powerful woman so despised. Words were never spoken, nor written down, lest the tempermental creature take offense at their similarity to the Crafter Ruin. Further, strips of brown cloth were attached over the nose and hung down the chin over every villager in the Root Village, reminding one another not to speak.

The villagers were bald, though they didn't think of themselves as such, rather, they saw hair as a nuisance, further distincting themselves from the Crafter Ruin by shaving it down with sharp tools. It was quite a challenge, one would imagine, to discern oneself from its own species, yet, the villagers managed it, and as time passed on, and through the lack of words, the Crafters themselves were forgotten entirely, as well as the legend of The Lady, the changes from Crafters stayed simply for the reason that they were considered the standard.

Flint found his gaze falling to the stretching shadows within the nearby forest, his mind wandering to why no one seemed to enter, and further, what laid beyond it. He, like every other villager in the Root Village, didn't leave the village. Even the minors dug beneath the village itself, unwilling to travel farther then the paths permitted. The fishers lingered by the docks, often getting the fishing lines tangled as a result of their reluctance.

Surely, such was strange? Was not the purpose of life not to survive, but to live? Fully, completely, truly? To not build houses that would do, for the moment, for rather, buildings that touched the sky, and rocked the world to stand in awe of itself?

Surely, something of that nature was better then a mad pile of short and stout houses, where the only differenciation from one another, was the fact that one had a flag upon its roof (Flint's, of course), while others did not. The children of the village were small in number in comparision to the number of fully grown adults, nearing a number of three, rather then nearly twenty. As such, the children often remained in lined packs, striding down the pathways during the many chores that needed to be done in a single day.

Flint was, as he often was, the last of the group, his own reluctant steps in his daydreams bringing him further from the group then the others. The boy's steps slowed into nonexistance, turned upon their heel, and strode with purpose towards the furthest house from the village's center, a flag stood atop, waving a bright green color with the wind.

Flint's family were miners, his father often going deep into the mines below the village with his wife at his side. It was uncountable how many times they had saved one another's lives, only strengthening the partnership, even without words. The small house opened up into a friendly sort of living room, a couch and a table taking the center, with a room in the back for all three of the members of the family. A chest stood in a corner, serving as a store for food, while the chest in the bedroom served for personal items. Though, instead of jewlery or the like, it often contained mining materials.

Said chest was now a stone pickaxe lighter, but Flint didn't think they'd mind, after all, he'd be back in a few minutes anyway, but in the case that there actually WAS a reason for the general ignoring of the forest, it would be handy to have a weapon of sorts.

With that, the boy exited the building, akwardly holding the stone pickaxe with both hands and a heavy sort of walk, as if burdened by a few pounds to many. The shadows of the dark trees stretched intimidatingly towards Flint's walking feet, the sense of foreboding bringing the boy to a stop.

Taking a breath, and gripping the pickaxe in a more intimidating fashion (he hoped) Flint took a step into the dark, the soft grass settling beneath his feet.

_Pat.. Pat.. Pat.._

Hyjiin – The Iron Protector Of Root Village

One villager was missing.

Every other one had been accounted for as they stepped into their little houses to leave the two golems of the village to their nightly duties. Indeed, Hyjiin was not alone, another golem, referred to by their maker as Bakum, was of diamond make, while Hyjiin was of iron, a superior gem, Hyjiin had been told.

As such, the Root Village was left under Bakum's care as the dark of the night descended, a task that it calculated that Bakum was able to handle completely, predicting the loss of village life to be a positive zero.

Hyjiin was a large golem, towering over the villagers with a benevolent sort of being. Its arms hung low to the ground, often a poppy placing itself in its hand to give to the villagers in times of the day. Vines wove up its left side of body, attributed only to the age the being had upon it. The villagers had taken their customs upon the iron golem, not that it minded, adding a line of brown above its eyes, and a patch of cloth over its mouth.

Its eyes which lit up in the presence of hostility, gleamed a bright red as it skimmed the dark forest, following the lightly trodden path of the child through the tall trees, seemingly getting lost in of themselves, and leading deeper into the shadows.

Sensors picked up when villagers were injured, especially in the village, but not solely if they were. While villagers didn't often leave the Root Village, Hyjiin was confident that this would not be the exception to the programming.

But, then again, there was much in this world that Hyjiin did not know.


End file.
